The Great Logue Town Riot of '73
by Aemillia
Summary: Shanks, Ben, and a bar room brawl that goes out of control.


**The Great Logue Town Riot of '73**

** AKA**

** Saturday Night's All Right for Fighting**

He never did find out if Shanks had been truly insulted or if he was just simply that bored. The captain had upended a full mug of rum on the man's head, calling him a jackass as he jeered into his face. Unsurprisingly, the now liquor-drenched pirate had roared to his feet, swinging for Shanks' nose on unsteady legs. Shanks, not so far gone that he lost all sense of balance, dodged the punch, swerving away from the bar. Not expecting the evasion, the sopping fist had continued onward, momentum causing the enraged pirate to strike an unsuspecting drunk on the cheek. With a meaty 'thwak', the punch rattled the teeth in the victim's skull, sending the tankard he held to his lips crashing to shatter on the flagstone floor.  
  
It seemed that the sound of breaking glass was a signal. Instantly the bar surged to life, a free-for-all of flying fists and mugs that engulfed everything in its path. Ben was on his feet the instant that fist had connected. He knew all too well the kind of trouble the captain was capable of fomenting. And, while Shanks was fully capable of holding his own, the wild atmosphere in the bar hinted only at chaos, the kind of fighting where everyone was an enemy. It wouldn't hurt to watch his back. He waded through the morass of drunken brawlers, easily clotheslining those foolish enough to attack him. A raised fist stopped the chair swung at his head, providing a convenient weapon in the process. The chunk of heavy oak flashed left and right, dropping pirates, mercenaries, and other riffraff to the floor. Trailing a wake of downed bodies, he made his way over to Shanks, encurring only a single bruised rib from a lucky punch.  
  
Shanks was standing on one of the few remaining upright tables, brandishing his own weapon, an entire bar stool Ben noted, at the ring of men surrounding him. He was laughing like a maniac, clearly enjoying the anarchy he'd created. Most of his attackers were kept at bay, Shanks merely having to move in his own tight circle in the center of the table to fend them off. Several would charge in at one time, but they weren't coordinated enough to assail him from all sides. He had things well in his single hand until he tripped over his own feet, pitching headfirst into an apparent pimp. His weight pulled the man, massive feathered hat and all, onto the floor, Shanks landing firmly on top with a breathless laugh. The pimp was visibly down for the count with his eyes rolled up in his head, and Shanks was in danger of joining him, unaware of the bottle of scotch being aimed at the back of his skull. With a well-placed blow to the wrist, the bottle dropped from numbed fingers, managing to land safely, if bruisingly, on Shanks' leg.  
  
"Thanks."  
  
He grinned up at Ben, as the first mate just shook his head. Ben didn't even bother to turn around when he felt the fist whiz past his ear. Grabbing the arm it belonged to, he tossed the unfortunate mercenary over his shoulder to crash into the bar. He ducked the next attack, letting the drunken tackle pass harmlessly over his head as he offered a hand to Shanks. The captain waved it off, surging to his feet with the uninjured scotch in his hand.  
  
"We should go," Ben shouted over the din, nodding in the direction of the door.  
  
"OK, but grab me that hat first, will ya?"  
  
With a sigh, Ben did as he was asked, snatching the eye-jarring monstrosity of a hat out from underneath the unconscious body of its owner. Brandishing his stave, he followed Shanks, rolling his eyes at the request to protect the hat from further damage. It was slow work; the mass of bodies, both still fighting and passed out on the floor made progress difficult, especially for a not-entirely-sober red head. They were about halfway to the door when the first body went crashing through a front window, unleashing the madness inside the bar out onto the streets. It was an unfortunate coincidence that both the annual mercenary hiring convention and the semi-annual treasure conclaves were both occurring on this same day. The narrow streets were choked with mercenaries and pirate hunters seeking bounties, men of both shady and reputable means seeking mercenaries, pirates seeking booze and treasure deals, and marines seeking everyone. This roiling mass of angry, vicious humanity was ripe for trouble, and trouble came looking.  
  
By the time the pair made it to the doorway, the door itself having long ago been kicked off its hinges, the whole town seemed to be engaged in one massive fistfight. They paused, Ben wondering how the hell they'd get back to the ship, and Shanks stopping to kick a few bodies that were still groaning and moving weakly.  
  
"You do know, don't you, that this is all your fault?" Ben gestured out at the mess. "I'll never figure out how you always manage to cause so much trouble."  
  
Shanks smirked in reply. "It's because I'm special."  
  
"Yeah, special in the head."  
  
"Hmm, speaking of heads, do you have the hat?"  
  
"You mean this atrocity? Yes, I still have it."  
  
Shanks tucked his scotch bottle under his chin, reaching out for the proffered object. It was felt, purple with yellow spots, and had a giant, now crushed and broken, red feather plume trailing from the black and white striped hat band. Shanks planted it firmly on his head, laughing at the exasperated look Ben gave him.  
  
"Wanted a souvenir," he pointed at his head with the bottle.  
  
"Whatever. Do you have a plan to get out of here?"  
  
"Yeah, we walk to the ship and kick the asses of anybody who gets in our way."  
  
Ben sighed again. Somehow he'd known the captain would say that. He threw himself into the melee, once again leaving a wake of bodies for Shanks to walk over. He took a few hits, not surprising given the sheer volume of the riot, but nothing too serious. Behind him, he heard Shanks wielding his own weapon, growling once when a blow got past his guard to blacken one eye. They were almost to the ship, finally breaking free of the main fighting, when they ran into the marines. A young-ish looking man, despite his gray hair, blocked their path, with a small squad of five more marines at his back. The man glared at them, chomping angrily on the cigar between his lips.  
  
"Stop," he ordered. "I recognize you pirates, you're under arrest!"  
  
"Only if you catch us," Shanks retorted, sticking out his tongue as he hauled back on Ben's arm.  
  
He pointed to a small alley, yanking his first mate behind him as they pelted down the street. The marines and a mysterious billow of smoke followed, but Shanks and Ben had too much of a headstart. They vanished around the corner into the safety of the alley, but not before a force managed to grab the hat from Shanks' head.  
  
"The hat!"  
  
"Trust me, it's not worth it."  
  
"I guess so. Wasn't really my style anyway."  
  
Within minutes they were back to the ship, having been the last of the Red- Haired pirates to arrive.  
  
"Time to set sail," Shanks hollered. "I've had enough fun for today."  
  
"That's for sure," came the muttered reply from Ben, before he grabbed the scotch from Shanks. "You're going to have to share this to make up for keeping me from my drink."  
  
A bit battered and with a purpling eye, Shanks still managed a wide, disingenuous grin at his first mate. "Sure, but only if I get the first swig."  
  
Back in Logue Town, a young marine officer growled under his breath, tearing the hat in his hands to shreds before leading his men forward to start cleaning up the mess.

A/N: I couldn't remember if Oda uses dates in One Piece. If he does, please let me know and I'll adjust accordingly. Also, the setting is approximately one year after Shanks loses his arm, shortly before Smoker becomes the commander in charge of Logue Town and gets rid of all the trouble.


End file.
